


In the Dark

by girloftheq (qthelights)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-15
Updated: 2006-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:16:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthelights/pseuds/girloftheq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't count, in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Dark

It doesn’t count, when she fucks Spike. Not really. 

Spike isn’t human, he has no soul, he has no morals. He wasn’t vampire, not with the chip, not when he couldn’t kill. He wasn’t anything really. So it doesn’t count on those occasions when she's patrolling and he appears from the shadow of a mausoleum and invades her personal space. When he toys with her, bites and mouthes at her throat or licks at her lips, breath hot and wet.

It’s just part of the game. Part of the release she craves; release from her life, her world. From her.

He's just convenient. Willing. There. Nothing more to it. That she feels life pounding in her veins when he pushed her back onto a cold stone slab, needing only one of his hands to hold both of her wrists down into the concrete above her head, concrete that sliced and bloodied her knuckles when he pushed against her, was just a by-product of what they were doing. It isn’t anything to do with him, just physical contact.

So it doesn’t count when she fucks him. Not in any meaningful way.

He’s always there in the echoes of darkness to taunt her, to tease her. To slip a strong hand shudderingly down her thigh, fingers and thumbs looped in simple silver rings. To drag the tips of his fangs across her nape, leaving silver slivers of scratched flesh that blossomed red with time. It's all just his play, his fantasy. He taunts her like a predator taunts its prey.

If she succumbed to it, then sure, it might mean something more. She doesn’t though. She’s just playing along to get what she needs. Nothing more. If all she has to give of herself is an act, then it’s far less than the burdens others ask of her. 

So she tells herself it doesn’t count and that she’s just acting when she lets his fingers slide and flick open the buttons of her jeans, lets him tease and press and hook her in the middle of the kitchen where anyone could walk in. She’s just giving him his power trip to get her fix. That’s why she doesn’t stop him.

He can have his pretend Buffy and she can have release. She knows this when she drags her teeth down his muscled back, traces his shoulder blade in mock vampiric fashion. The marks she leaves are two shades of red. Bruised lipstick and bruised flesh. She can brand him as surely as any vampire’s teeth could. She can prove she’s in control.

When he growls in her ear that she is meant to be with him she shudders and her skin tightens. When he tells her she belongs in the dark, not with her friends and family, but with things that shimmer and pulse in the same cadence she’s made from, she wants to roll her eyes and get on with it. 

She pretends she doesn’t know what he means.

That he can cause her body to react simply by taking a menacing step toward her, pressing hard against her with a flippant remark or a cocked eyebrow, is just evidence that she’s been alone for awhile. Shoving her against the wall of a clandestine corner of the Bronze, her house, her work, tugging her hand down to feel him. Coaxing her out of routine that she really needs to stay in. These are all simply manifestations of her needs, not his influence.

But what to make of the power she feels when she presses the newest laceration on her arm up to his mouth? When his eyes dilate and blacken with recognition of the metallic tang, his breath catches in his chest and she feels him flex and jump inside her. A guttural moan wrenches itself out of his throat. It’s not like she cares if he’s pleased or not. She wishes that she could identify the arrhythmic skip in her chest when he comes. But she can’t, won’t, so she ignores it. It’s not like it matters anyway.

And when it’s her, fingers entangled in sheets, and she can’t bear the sensation of fangs along wet flesh any longer. When her hips jolt urgently and he senses her need and slips broad hands along her lower back, pulling her up hard against his mouth, she doesn’t stop to wonder why this action pulls her over the edge.

She doesn’t think about it later either, when they’re side by side, struggling to regain the simple act of breathing. 

It’s Spike. It doesn’t count. And so she runs, the minute she has her breath, the use of her legs. She can return to her life, exist around her friends, her sister, her job. Return to the place where she’s sure she’s meant to belong and not worry about anything she just did, anything she just felt.

Because it’s Spike, and it doesn’t count.


End file.
